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UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



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REV. WILBUR L. DAVIDSON. 



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Op WASH IV' (V,^-' 



CINCI NN ATI : 

CRANSTON AND STOWE. 

New York : Phillips and Hunt. 

1S8S. 






Copyright by 

WILBUR L. DAVIDSON. 

1885. 



I [the LI] 

IjOF COMGEESSl 

11 WAS J 



DEDICATORY. 



To MY Friend, 

^liver y 1 e et a ©t(zt]|®i»(a, 

Who, more than any one else, helped to realize to 
me the dreams of my youth, 

<S>\)is "Folume is Mztxlbtls 

BY 

The Author. 



REALIZE that I am entering a well- 
plowed field, but I raise the open 
link another notch in the clevis, and hope 
to strike the subsoil. This is not a guide- 
book ; nor does it tell a connected story 
in the order of a journey. It is rather 
made up of bits of description, selected 
at random from the observations of a 
well-filled Summer. It is written, at the 
solicitation of friends, for them and for any 
others who may care to read it. In the 
hope that it may reanimate dying memo- 
ries for some, and for others awaken a 
desire to look upon the things which I 
have so imperfectly described, I let it to 

its work. 

W. L. D. 

Painesville, O. 



)0N1iEEirnS. 






CHAPTER. PAGE. 

I. OUTWARD BOUND ii 

II. STRATFORD-UPON-AVON— Part First 29 

III. STRATFORD-UPON-AVON— Part Second 39 

IV. OVER THE WENGERN ALP ON FOOT 51 

V. ACROSS THE BRUNIG TO LUCERNE 65 

VI. SUNRISE ON THE RIGI 79 

VII. LAKE COMO AND MILAN 91 

VIII. NAPLES AND VESUVIUS 109 

IX. ONE ROMAN RUIN : 131 

X. HOMEWARD BOUND 149 



«5> 



^ulwam • ]^our)Gl. 



)N May, 1883, on the very day that 
loving hands were placing garlands 
of flowers upon the soldiers' graves, we 
left New York for Liverpool on the 
good ship Bothnia, of the Cunard Line, 
We had three hundred and one passen- 
gers on board. I can never forget the 
scene as the cables were loosened from 
their moorings, and we drifted away from 
the dock. Hundreds of people stood 
waving their handkerchiefs to departing 
friends, and with heroic mastery of feel- 
ing tremulously shouted their tear-choked 
"good-byes." 



12 OUTWARD BOUND. 

As we glided down the bay the tall 
spires of New York and the lofty Brook- 
lyn Bridge, which, on the morrow, was 
to be the scene of a sickening horror, 
gradually faded from our view. Gov- 
ernor's Island, with its massive fortifica- 
tions and frowning cannon, Rockaway 
Beach, with its famous hotel and crowds 
of happy bathers, are quickly passed ; 
Sandy Hook, at the mouth of the bay, is 
reached, our pilot is discharged, our last 
American letter hastily penned on ship- 
board is sent by the returning tug to 
anxious friends, and we steam out to sea:. 
Our eyes are turned homeward as long as 
we can see a trace of land. But soon 
the white Jersey cliffs seem to be but a 
cloud hanging upon the horizon. 

I confess to a little sinking of the heart, 
and moistening of the eyes, as my na- 



OUTWARD BOUND. 13 

tive land sank into the sea. But not long 
was I permitted to indulge in sentimients 
of this sort. A sudden unwelcome attack 
of nausea claimed my immediate atten- 
tion, and I left the gayety of the deck for 
the seclusion of my state-room, where I 
found a Catholic from Maine and an en- 
thusiastic Methodist from Indiana were to 
be my room-mates. They, too, had been 
"struck by the swell," and looked sadly 
demoralized. Their dilapidated appear- 
ance had its effect on my uncertain condi- 
tion, and in a little while I had a first-class 
case of Mark Twain's "O my's. " Even 
those who knew me best were compelled 
to acknowledge that my gastronomic poAv- 
ers had been shamefully underrated, and 
that there was really more in me than 
they had supposed. O, how fearfully sick 
I was; I wanted to die, but couldn't. 



14 OUTWARD BOUND. 

Friends came with restoratives and tempt- 
ing bits of supper. I hid my face in the 
pillow, and rudely motioned them away. 
Friendship's tenderest ministry is, after 
all, but little appreciated by a stomach 
diseased. 

Towards evening, arrayed in my rub- 
ber-coat, for a wind and rain-storm had 
suddenly come out of the West, I stag- 
gered up on deck to get a breath of fresh 
air. The boat pitched like mad, so that 
I was compelled to hold on to the ropes 
for dear life (with my mouth ever over the 
sea). The sailors were spreading the can- 
vas to catch the freshening breeze. The 
shrill voice of the boatswain sang out, 
"Heave ho." I checked my inward ex- 
ercisings long enough to look up over 
the gunwale and say, " I 'm a heavin'." I 
draw the curtain over my intolerable suf- 



OUTWARD BOUND. 



15 



ferings for the next eight days, and leave 
all to the reader's imagination. 

Six days pass away, almost every body 
is sick, and the deck is comparatively de- 
serted. Down in the imprisoned, stifling 
air of our state-room we lay thinking of 
home and friends. How strange it seems 
to be cut off from all possible communi- 
cation with them ; for ten whole days to 
hear no word from the outside world. A 
President may be assassinated, a cyclone 
may do its work of death in communities 
where fondly loved ones dwell, and yet 
you be totally oblivious to it all. How 
strange to have no daily paper with its 
record of the world's doings. You are 
completely shut up to your own thought. 
Nowhere else are you so discovered to 
yourself as when far out at sea. In- 
finitely more than on land there comes 



1 6 OUTWARD BOUND. 

an intense feeling of isolation and de- 
pendence, and the soul, in its utter help- 
lessness, reaches out toward the only 
One who is able to protect and keep it. 
Looking out over the trackless waste of 
waters and up into the voiceless sky, the 
soul expands, and there seems to come 
with the force of a sublime conviction, 
an overpowering sense of Him ' ' who holds 
the sea in the hollow of his hand, and 
taketh up the isles as a very little thing." 
Then when ' ' night draws her sable cur- 
tain " over the scene, the loneliness is 
intensified tenfold, and the soul, seem- 
ingly without volition, )'earns to solve 
the dark problem of the future. You ask 
yourself, Will there be a future life ? 
When, lo, a solitary star rising in the 
east, casts its pencilings of light .clear 
from its home in heaven across the water 



OUTWARD BOUND. 



17 



to the very spot where you are standing, 
and it says, ' ' Beyond thy bounded vision, 
beyond the gloom and darkness, there is 
a land of light." With these intensified 
feelings how the aroused and quickened 
"conscience begins to search the secret 
cells of the heart," and the almost for- 
gotten events of the past pass in quick 
review before you, appalling you with 
their distinctness. Memory, the police- 
man of the mind, calls up sins indulged, 
opportunities unimproved, promises bro- 
ken, sorrows borne, and joys long fled. 
With such surroundings there comes the 
retrospective power which some have tes- 
tified as experiencing when, about to be 
launched upon the ocean of eternity, they 
looked back with spiritual vision cleared. 

But, like every thing else, seasickness 
has its end. Constant familiarity with it 



1 8 OUTWARD BOUND. 

breeds contempt, and you come at last to 
realize the utter foolishness of a strong 
man like yourself being in subjection to 
a little stomach ; and then, too, the time 
comes when the poor stomach has not 
strength enough left for a creditable insur- 
rection, and you resolve to be well. In 
the very resolve comes relief — you go 
boldly on deck. The sun is shining 
brightly, giving to the crest of every wave 
the appearance of polished silver. The 
pure air of heaven fills your lungs with 
new life. Children full of frolic are run- 
ning hither and thither. All around you 
men and women are laughing and jesting, 
and you feel that you are a man again. 
A little dose of will power is the best 
remedy in the world for seasickness, which 
is, after all, in about four-fifths of its en- 
tirety, a disease of the mind. 



OUTWARD BOUND. 



19 



People find various methods of killing 
time on shipboard. Frivolity and idleness 
seem innocent and appropriate occupa- 
tions. For these, on shipboard, you feel 
no reproach, while to countenance them 
on shore would drive you into bitter re- 
morse. Some spend the time in reading, 
and nothing is too trashy to be wel- 
come ; some in writing, some in sleeping ; 
others play cards, and a few gamble in a 
limited way. Shipboard quoits are rel- 
ished by some, while flirting consumes the 
time of others. Often the sailors con- 
tribute to the amusement of the ship's 
company by indulging in their boisterous 
games. I especially recall one. A ring, 
about eight feet in diameter, is drawn 
with chalk on the deck ; two men seat 
themselves on the opposite edges of the 
ring; a stick is put through under their 



20 OUTWARD BOUND. 

knees ; their hands are tied in front of 
their legs, close down to their feet. All be- 
ing ready, they crow in imitation of chan- 
ticleer, and the contest begins. As can be 
imagined, they move but slowly, gradually 
coming to a foot and foot combat. Each 
attempts to get his toes under the toes of 
his enemy and upset him ; this done, he 
is easily rolled out of the ring. 

Occasionally sights are seen which 
break the monotony of vision. One morn- 
ing several whales spouted just off the 
stern of the ship. At another time we 
sighted a dismasted vessel drifting along 
a prey to the merciless waves. How long 
she had been disabled, and what had become 
of her crew, were questions we discussed, 
but could not answer. Schools of porpoises 
were frequently seen, and it was exceed- 
ingly amusing to watch their acrobatic feats. 



OUTWARD BOUND. 2 1 

Before starting on my journey I had 
frequently expressed the wish in conver- 
sation that I might encounter a first-class 
storm at sea. Well, my wish was grati- 
fied, and I never want to see another. 
About dusk, one night, a strong wind 
sprang up dead against us. The sails 
were speedily reefed, and every thing put 
in readiness for a gale. Great armies of 
angry waves came dashing against the 
vessel, spray filled the air, the ship trem- 
bled in every timber, the cordage creaked, 
the wind howled, accompanied by a deep 
shuddering undertone that "sounded like a 
voice from some distant world." The ship 
seemed a very plaything for the mountain 
waves. No one could stand on deck 
without a clutch on something solid. The 
life lines were adjusted. The great waves 
rolled in and lapped the deck \\nt\\ their 



22 OUTWARD BOUND. 

liquid tongues. I sought my berth with 
unaccustomed alacrity, and got on the flat 
of my back. At one moment I seemed 
to be standing erect, with my feet on the 
foot-board of the berth, the next moment 
I was standing on my head ; then chucked 
from side to side until I was fairly black 
and blue. The storm lasted all night. 
Many of the passengers were badly scared, 
and sat up with their valuables in a 
"grip-sack," ready to take passage in a 
life-boat if it was launched. But the cap- 
tain did not deem such a course neces- 
sary ; he was, doubtless, laughing in his 
sleeve while we poor mortals were shiv- 
ering with fright. Still the old sailors 
said it was as stiff a breeze as they usually 
encounter. 

It is a difficult matter, on shipboard, 
to tell when Sunday comes, unless you 



OUTWARD BOUND. 23 

chance to consult a calendar. People 
laugh and jest just as on other days. The 
bar is open, and the deck steward flies to 
and fro with all kinds of mixed and un- 
mixed drinks. True, the captain reads 
the Church of England service in the 
morning in the cabin, and a song-service 
fills the vesper hour, but I leave you to 
imagine how much solemnity of feeling 
can be cultivated during a song service 
when the popping of bottles serves as an 
accompaniment. Not caring to witness 
such sacrilege, I hurried to a quiet spot 
on deck, preferring to hear the "litany 
of the waves, and watch the altar lamps 
of the stars." I took as my text, "The 
Lord on high is mightier than the noise 
of many waters ; yea, than the mighty 
waves of the sea," and preached myself 
to sleep. When I awoke thick night had 



24 



OUTWARD BOUND. 



gathered about me, the waves had gone 
to sleep, and naught was heard but the 
rattle of the machinery and the weird 
song of the sailors as they trimmed the 
sails. 

Well, nine days have passed since we 
set sail. The captain promises us that 
when we rise to-morrow morning we shall 
see the Irish coast. Already we can al- 
most sniff the land, and catch the scent 
of the hawthorn hedges. We turn in for 
a snooze. In the morning we rise at 
daybreak, and over our starboard bow 
we catch sight of Fastnet Lighthouse, 
high up on a jagged cliff. A rousing 
cheer goes up from those that had by 
this time assembled on deck. A mo- 
ment later we run into a fog bank, and 
the enrapturing vision is obscured. The 
boat slows its speed, and the fog-whistle 



OUTWARD BOUND. 25 

sounds its clarion notes every minute. 
All is excitement and preparation. 

The day is filled with sociability of the 
genuine sort. During the earlier days of 
the voyage seasickness interfered with the 
formation of acquaintanceships. Those 
who were well looked askance at stran- 
gers, and imperiously lived in an atmos- 
phere of their own. But the warmth of 
constant contact served to melt these 
human icebergs ; and now, on the last 
day of the voyage, the ship's company 
seems more like a family than a collec- 
tion of people ten days before practically 
unacquainted with one another. 

The fog noAv lifts. The sea is covered 
with fishing smacks of all descriptions. 
Off to the north appears the coast of 
poor, oppressed Ireland, " the emerald set 
in the rine of the sea." The shores are 



26 OUTWARD BOUND. 

rocky and precipitous. On the uplands 
are little fields which, in Ireland, repre- 
sent farms, covered with the greenest 
grass you ever saw. Not a tree is to be 
seen on the whole coast. A lighthouse, 
now and then, lifts its welcome form, a 
beacon to the anxious mariner. We pass 
Queenstown and send some passengers 
ashore on a " lighter." They are de- 
termined to "do" Ireland first. We 
slowly forge our way along through St. 
George's Channel, which is a regular grave- 
yard of ocean steamers. At last we run 
up the turbid Mersey to Liverpool, and 
step on terra firma, filled with thanksgiv- 
ing and appetite. 



)fpaf[opd=upor)=<2/iv©r). 



II. 

)N Stratford - upon - Avon it was my 
good fortune to stop at the same ho- 
tel—the Red Horse — that had been the 
home of Washington Irving while in Eng- 
land gathering material for his immortal 
"Sketch Book." By some lucky chance 
I was assigned to the room once occu- 
pied by him, much to the dissatisfaction 
of several Americans who pined for that 
honored distinction. I slept well, but am 
not conscious of having felt a descending 
mantle or receiving any special inspira- 
tion. In the morning I breakfasted in 

what was his old parlor. I saw the fa- 

29 



3° STRA TFORD- UPON- A VON. 

vorite chair in which he was wont to sit, 
which he facetiously called his "throne," 
and I held in my hand the poker — his 
"scepter," as he called it — with which 
he used to stir the fire. 

I reached Stratford in the evening, 
during that delightful season when twi- 
light stretches far into the night. With 
what a thrill of genuine delight one plants 
his feet within the sacred inclosure of this 
grand old town, where lived and died the 
immortal bard, whose deft fingers could 
draw sounds of sweetest melody from 
every string set in the harp of the soul, 
and whose far-seeing eyes peered into the 
very depths of human nature, and saw 
the very uttermost of the passions and the 
loves whose castle is the human heart. 

The gentle Avon, dark and almost cur- 
rentless, still flows, bank full, through 



STRA TFORD- UPON- A VON. 3 I 

meadows green that skirt the town along 
its southern border. Stately elms, sweet- 
scented limes, white blossoming chest- 
nuts, adorn its banks, and stoop to kiss 
its upturned face. A solitary bridge, with 
massive arches of rough -hewn stones, 
spans the narrow stream just where the 
street comes tumbling down the hill straight 
from the market-place, leaps the river, 
and winds onward through the meadows 
to the somber ruins of old Kenilworth. 

I stood upon this bridge immured in 
thought, as night drew her sable curtain 
over the scene. One by one the stars 
timidly stole out of their enforced seclu- 
sion, glistening on the dark and silent 
stream, seemingly glad to do their little 
work of lighting up the darkness of the 
night. With such surroundings I could 
but think of him by whose cradle and 



32 6- TRA TFORD- UP ON- A VON. 

whose grave I stood ; he who but three 
hundred years before shone as a sun in 
the firmament of the world's thought, 
echpsing many a lesser light that, but for 
his radiance, might have astonished the 
world, and did astonish it, after his eclips- 
ing gave them opportunity. 

The pale moon rose out of the grave 
of the day, and cast her rays of mellow 
light over meadow and river, spire and 
deeping town. Chance pedestrians crossed 
the bridge at intervals — a harvester late re- 
turning from the field with sickle and jug; 
a milkmaid humming a merry tune ; a 
company of children, full of frolic, long 
staying at their play, whose rippling 
laughter rang loud and long on the still 
night air. Old age, too, tottering on a 
staff, came to cross the bridge. Beneath 
was heard the dip of oars, and out of the 



STUA TFORD UPON- A VON. ZZ 

shadow of the arch there ghded a boat 
with two occupants, and he who pulled 
the oars seemed less intent on the speed 
and course of his craft than on bringing 
into the harbor of his love the one who 
leaned with listening ear to catch the 
promise of his devotion. How such a 
scene as this recalls to the mind of one 
thinking of Shakespeare and his writings, 
the words he put into mouth of Jacques 
respecting the seven ages of man. 

Looking down the river from the bridge, 
some distance, may be seen a vast build- 
ing towering above its fellows. Even in 
the moonlight its unfinished Gothic tur- 
rets proclaim that it is new. It is the 
latest outgrowth of Stratford's love for 
her illustrious son, a memorial theater, 
where the great plays of the renowned 
dramatist are to be presented. Further 



34 STRATFORD-UPON-AVON. 

off, glimmering through the tree-tops, is 
the dusky spire of old Trinity, keeping its 
sacred vigil over the dust of Shakespeare. 
But the night is over, and I leave the 
bridge, and through the winding streets 
of the quaint old town seek the birth- 
place of the poet-dramatist. To find it is 
not hard. All the boys and girls in Strat- 
ford know the spot, and will trudge a long 
distance out of their way to become your 
guide to the consecrated place. Then, 
too, kindly fingerboards at the corners of 
the streets direct to the "birthplace of 
Shakespeare." The building is now the 
property of the government, and has been 
so patched and mended that it scarcely 
seems to have stood three hundred years. 
It is low, with gables and projecting win- 
dows built of wood and plaster, as was 
the custom in the fifteenth century. The 



STRA TFORD- UPON-A VON. 35 

furniture within remains much as it was 
in the Hfetime of the gifted man. Two 
maiden ladies do the honors of the place, 
pointing out with flashing eye and undis- 
guised pride the room in which Shake- 
speare first saw the light of day, and the 
old kitchen where he played his boyish 
pranks. On a pane of glass, cut with a 
diamond, is the autograph of Sir Walter 
Scott. On a piece of plastering which 
has recently fallen from the wall, is the 
name of Lord Byron, written in lead pen- 
cil ; and in the visitors' registers, which are 
opened for the inspection of all who care 
to look, are found the autographs of nearly 
all the notable personages who, in the last 
three centuries, have made the pilgrimage 
to this Mecca of the world's affectionate 
thought. The old stairway leading to the 
upper rooms is well worn by the feet of 



36 STRATFORD-UPON-AVON. 

tourists. Antique furniture of the oddest 
designs is visible on every hand. In a 
half-attic bedchamber hangs the "only 
true, original, and genuine painting" of 
the immortal bard. As a work of art it 
is certainly a pronounced success. The 
lawn about the house is kept with scru- 
pulous care, and is filled with the flowers 
that poor Ophelia names in the scene of 
her madness. A graceful ivy encircles the 
old-fashioned chimney (once again the new 
fashion), as if to conceal the deformities 
of its age. Standing by the cradle of this 
wonderful man, this blazing meteor that 
swept through the sky of the world's 
thought, let us pause and think a little of 
his life and work before we wander to his 
grave. 



''G^f pal to m = u p o F) = (g/i V r) . 



CONTINUED, 



III. 

CONTINUED. 

^ET us check for a moment our mus- 
ings over the cradle of Shakespeare, 
full of inspiration as they are, and look 
upon the end of human genius. A few- 
steps from Shakespeare's birthplace is the 
house in which he died. No, not the 
house, for that was torn down by an 
irreverent and much despised iconoclast, 
and a new one, with all the modern im- 
provements, stands in its place ; but the 
spot is still held sacred, and visitors, with 
uncovered heads, are conveyed within the 

2>9 



4° ^ TRA TFORD- UPON- A VON. 

hallowed inclosure, and are shown the old 
well with its "moss-covered bucket," and 
the stump of the favorite mulberry, under 
whose shade the immortal bard was wont 
to take his rest. Just across the street 
stands the town hall, a massive stone struc- 
ture, built to perpetuate the memory of the 
man whom Stratford people delight to 
honor. Within is his portrait, painted in 
oil. In a niche in the exterior is his bust 
in marble, presented by the actor, Da- 
vid Garrick. Underneath are the words 
familiar to all readers of Shakespeare, 
"Take him for all in all, we shall not look 
upon his like again." 

Just across the street is the curiosity 
shop, presided over by a garrulous old 
lady, Mrs. James, who has no difficulty in 
satisfying herself, at least, that she is a 
connecting link in the lineage of the house 



STRA TFORD- UPON- A VON. 4 1 

of Shakespeare, let her long-sufferhig vis- 
itors think as they will. She has suc- 
ceeded in gathering together a large num- 
ber of Shakespearean relics, a study of 
which well repays an extended visit. One 
old family heir-loom, before which the boy 
Shakespeare possibly often kindled his 
heroism, is worthy a passing notice. It 
is a crude painting of the encounter be- 
tween David and Goliath. It is encased 
in a queer old frame, and is encircled 
with poetry. I copied the follovv^ing : 

*' Goliath came with swoi^d and spear, 
And David with a sling ; 
Although Goliath rage and swear, 
Down David doth him bring." 

The date is 1606. 

A few more steps down a lane shaded 
by limes, and we are at the parish church, 
one of the finest specimens of old eccle- 



42 STRATFORD-UPON-AVON. 

siastical architecture in all Europe. It is 
rich in ornamentation, but is slowly mold- 
ering into decay. Innumerable birds have 
built their nests along its eaves, and keep 
up an incessant twittering. The church- 
yard, filled with venerable elms and sweet- 
scented limes, skirts the river for a con- 
siderable distance. Under the shade are 
a multitude of graves, grass-grown and 
marked only b)' half sunk tombstones cov- 
ered with moss. I spent an hour in wan- 
dering through the silent city and reading 
the quaint inscriptions. I reproduce two 
as specimens of the rhythm of olden time: 

"What faults you see in me 
Pray strive to sliun, 
And look at home, tliere 's 
Something to be done." 

" Peneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree shade, 
Each in their narrow cell forever laid, 



^77?^ TFORD- UPON- A VON. 43 

The swallows twittering from their straw-built shed, 
No more shall rouse thee from thy lowly bed." 

Lovers of "graveyard poetry" will 
have detected that the gem quoted last 
sounds strangely like one of the stanzas 
in Gray's "Elegy." Whether the tomb- 
stone stole from the elegy, or vice versa, 
we leave the reader to decide. For our 
own part, we lean to the opinion that the 
tombstone was chiseled long before Gray 
commenced his rhyming. 

The old church stands facing the blue 
Avon that Shakspeare loved. Into its 
holy precincts he had often gone as a de- 
vout worshiper, and it was but befitting 
that it should become the receptacle of 
his dust. His grave is under the gray 
pavement of the chancel, and his wife and 
two daughters sleep beside him. On a 
flat stone which marks the spot where 



44 STRATFORD-UPON-AVON. 

the bard lies buried are inscribed, in old 
English, these four familiar lines, said to 
have been written by himself: 

"Good friend, for Jesus sake forbear 
To dig the dust inclosed here ; 
Blessed be he that spares these stones, 
And cursed be he that moves my bones." 

The fear that the curse would be exe- 
cuted has prevented the removal of his 
dust to Westminster Abbey, which has 
more than once been contemplated. In a 
niche in the wall above the tomb is his 
bust, said to be correct in form and fea- 
ture. Other tombs are scattered through 
the church, giving it a decidedly sepulchral 
appearance. Almost every stone in the 
pavement bears an epitaph. Statues look 
down on you from every side, frown- 
ing indignantly that you should tread so 
thoughtlessly over the bones of the dead. 



STRA TFORD- UPON- A VON. 45 

I attended a Sabbath service in this 
quaint old church. It was one of the 
most memorable experiences of my life. 
Before starting I had read William Win- 
ter's eloquent description of a Sabbath 
service in Stratford parish church. His 
experience became mine. As I can not 
hope to equal him I shall let him describe 
it. "There is the sound of music, very 
soft and low, in the Stratford church, 
and the dim light, broken by the richly 
stained windows, streams across the dusky 
chancel, filling the still air with opal haze, 
and flooding those gray gravestones with 
a mellow radiance. Not a word is spoken, 
but at intervals the rustle of leaves is 
audible in the sighing wind. What visions 
are these that suddenly fill the region ? 
What royal faces of monarchs, proud with 
power or pallid with anguish ? What 



4^ S TRA TFORD- UP ON- A VON. 

sweet, imperial women, gleeful with happy 
youth and love, or wide-eyed and rigid in 
tearless woe ? What warriors, with ser- 
pents' diadems, defiant of death or hell ? 
The mournful eyes of Hamlet, the wild 
countenance of Lear, Ariel with his harp, 
Prospero with his wand. Here is no 
death. All these, and more, are immor- 
tal shapes, and he that made them so, 
though his mortal part be but a handful 
of dust in yonder crypt, is a glorious angel 
beyond the stars." 

A picture of Stratford would be im- 
perfect without a glimpse of the scene of 
Shakespeare's courtship. Interesting in 
the extreme is the journey down the grass- 
grown path over the stiles to the little 
village of Shottery, a mile away. It is 
the same path which the feet of the ar- 
dent lover had doubtless pressed, many 



S TRA TFORD- UP ON- A VON. 4 7 

and many a time, as after a day of toil he 
had given himself over to the passion to 
which all men are heir. It would be hard 
to find a sweeter, a more enchanting rustic 
retreat than Anne Hathaway's cottage is 
even now. The tall trees embower it, 
and over its porches and all along its 
picturesque, irregular front, and on its 
thatched roof, the woodbine and ivy cling, 
and there are wild roses and maiden blush. 
A queer looking little old woman shows 
you the interior — the oaken seat, now 
badly mutilated by the knives of tourists, 
on which William and Anne were wont to 
sit; many bits of venerable furniture, and 
upstairs an immense old bedstead, on 
which a long line of Hathaways have met 
the "last enemy." In the dooryard I 
looked into the same old well, scarce ten 
feet deep, in which the blushing couple 



4^ STRATFORD-UPON-AVON. 

had often seen their happy faces mirrored, 
and near by I plucked a spray of sweet 
pea, which I shall ever keep as a souvenir 
of my visit. 

With reluctant footsteps I turned away 
from Stratford and its sacred dust. Its 
memory will ever remain a joy and a de- 
light. If I have enabled the reader to 
see the picture as I see it, my object has 
been accomplished. When will the ages 
produce another Shakespeare? 



^vepfrje wer)(2repr)/ilp or) K00I 



IV. 

)NTERLAKEN is the Saratoga of 
Switzerland. It is the Alpine sum- 
mer resort most frequented by English- 
speaking people. It is charmingly sit- 
uated on an isthmus between Lake Brientz 
and Lake Thun, from which fact it derives 
its name. It is famous for its score of 
elegant hotels, its wood carving, and its 
unrivaled view of the snow-dome of the 
giantess Jung-frau, which, on a clear day, 
seems almost to be within your touch, 
but is, in reality, a score of miles away. 
The Jung-frau is, beyond all question, 

51 



52 OVER THE WENGERN ALP ON FOOT. 

the most beautiful and impressive single 
mountain in Switzerland. The name sig- 
nifies VIRGIN, and is given on account of 
the peculiar purity and beauty of the 
peak. In the distance it seems as smooth 
as if chiseled by an Angelo out of a solid 
block of marble. The topmost peak re- 
sembles a head, the lower peaks on either 
side stretch away as graceful shoulders, 
and, with but little stretch of the imagi- 
nation, the Jung-frau stands before us 
clad in white raiment, "beautiful as a 
bride adorned for her husband." In the 
sunlight she is dazzling "and seems so 
near to heaven, and so pure in her vestal 
robes, that we are willing to believe the 
gateway must be there." Lord Byron 
has filled this region with dark and evil 
spirits. In Manfred he compares the 
"curling clouds" creeping up the preci- 



OVER THE WENGERN ALP ON FOOT. 53 

pices to the ' ' foam from the roused ocean 
of hell." Such descriptions could only 
emanate from a mind filled with horror 
and remorse, and dead to all beauty and 
glory. As I looked at the "curling 
clouds" circling the brow of Jung-frau, 
which the sun was filling with glorious 
light, I thought not of "hell waves," but 
rather of "heavenly robes;" and as I saw 
the lofty summit, which seemed to touch 
the very vault of heaven, wreathed with 
this indescribable beauty, I could easily 
fancy"angels were on it, and not far from 
home." 

A quiet Sabbath evening experience 
which I had in this delightful spot can 
never be effaced. The church bells were 
ringing out the invitation to vespers. The 
sun was just sinking into the west. The 
mountain tops were all ablaze, but broad 



54 OVER THE WENGERh ALP ON FOOT. 

shadows stretched themselves across the 
valley. The distant mountain ranges were 
tinged with a deep purple, but Jung-frau, 
high above them all, was suffused with a 
glow of crimson and gold — this light 
changing, playing, and deepening with in- 
describable effect. And long after the 
valley had been wrapped in darkness, this 
glorious radiance lingered on the head 
of the queen of the Alps, and she carried 
it far into the night. 

But let us begin our foot journey. A 
little distance from the town you enter a 
dark, narrow valley, through which the 
Lutschine, fed by the thousand springs 
that trickle down the almost perpendicular 
sides of the canyon, rushes with mad 
fury. During the short days of the year 
the valley has barely two hours of sun- 
light. The ruggedness of the scenery 



OVER THE WENGERN ALP ON FOOT. 55 

soon grows monotonous, and it is with a 
feeling of relief that the little village of 
Lauterbrunnen, at the head of the valley, 
is reached. Plere we find the famed Staub- 
bach Falls. It leaps over a precipice 
nearly one thousand feet high, promising 
much in the way of grandeur, but so 
small is the volume of water that, leaping 
from such a giddy height, it is dissipated 
into spray, in which rainbows play, long 
before it reaches the valley. In con- 
trast with the verdure of the mount- 
ains it looks like a scarf of mist flung out 
by the mountain sprites. Wordsworth 
calls it " a heaven-born waterfall, " and Mur- 
ray compares it to a "beautiful lace veil 
suspended from a precipice." It is said 
that the famous bridal veil of the Yose- 
mite Valley is a finer fall than the Staub- 
bach, although it has not had Byron for 



5 6 OVER THE WENGERN ALP ON FOOT. 

its poet nor Longfellow for its historic 
romancer. 

The waters on the edge of the precipice 
seem suspended a moment in mid-heaven, 
like a bird of prey hovering over its vic- 
tim, then swooping down to the work 
of destruction ; yet long before the threat- 
ening torrent strikes the ground its pro- 
digious fall diffuses it into softest mist, 
which refreshes to new verdure the very 
fields it had menaced with desolation. 
After all, how like this are most of life's 
seeming calamities ! In the distance they 
threaten to destroy us, but when they reach 
us we find them fraught with blessing, or, 
at least, robbed of much which gave us 
grave apprehension. 

From Lauterbrunnen I crossed the 
Wengern Alp, which some wag has called 
the "Boulevard of Switzerland." It is 



OVER THE WENGERN ALP ON FOOT. 57 

the most frequented foot pass in the 
Alps. On any bright day, during the 
season, you are sure to meet a score at 
least of merry parties of travelers, slowly 
forging their way along the narrow bridle- 
paths in various directions, all seeking to 
see the world of Switzerland. The dis- 
tance is eighteen miles, and is full of the 
hardest climbing. The best plan is to 
break the journey by walking nine miles 
in the afternoon, which brings you to the 
hotel at the summit ; here spend the night, 
and then complete the journey in the 
fresh hours of the morning. ^ The highest 
altitude reached is six thousand feet, and 
here, at the crown, is situated an elegant 
little hotel, just on the edge of an im- 
mense ravine, which separates the Wengern 
Alp from Jung-frau. The trip, though 
hard to make, is one of the best paying 



5 8 OVER TH-E WENGERN ALP ON FOOT, 

in all Switzerland. Constant surprises are 
in store for you, and being on foot you 
can "make haste slowly," and give things 
a thorough investigation. The scenery baf- 
fles description. At one point I counted 
thirteen cascades tumbling down the 
mountain gorges. At first, you look up 
to see them, but after toiling diligently 
up the narrow, rugged path, you finally 
get above them, and as you look down 
they have greatly diminished in apparent 
height. 

Here, too, the Alpine horn wakes the 
echoes of the mountains. Along this fa- 
mous pass scores of poor peasants are 
blowing their lives away to earn the odd 
centimes of the tourists. The effect is some- 
times magical. A shrill blast is blown, 
which is caught up and thrown back by 
peak after peak, until you may some- 



OVER THE WENGERN ALP ON FOOT. 59 

times count eight distinct and separate 
repetitions, a magnificent octave of echoes 
struck from the organ of the mountains. 
On this pass the flora is exceedingly 
abundant and beautiful. I gathered thirty 
choice varieties of Alpine flowers. It 
seems so strange; just across the deep 
ravine, scarcely half a mile away, are the 
cold, icy slopes of Jung-frau, and here, 
all about you, is the richest profusion 
of bloom. 

Beggars of all ages and descriptions 
infest this pass. Behind every rock, at 
every turn, especially just where a " tender- 
foot" would, in all probability, be obliged 
to stop and catch his breath after a hard 
bit of climbing, you find them. Children 
with the oldest faces (a marked charac- 
teristic of all Swiss children) offer for sale 
bunches of Alpine roses, sprays of the 



6o OVER THE WENGERN ALP ON FOOT. 

famous Edelweiss, or baskets of Alpine 
strawberries, a variety small in size but 
with an exceedingly delicious flavor. If 
these things fail to cause your hand to seek 
your pocket your ears are tortured with 
Tyrolean melodies, until you are right 
glad to pay the small price they ask for 
stopping their noise. 

Here, also, at the hotel of which I have 
spoken, through a glass, I caught my 
only glimpse of a real live chamois, feed- 
ing on a cliff high up the side of Jung- 
frau. These little animals have been so 
hunted for their horns and hoofs and skin, 
that, to "save their bacon," they have 
taken refuge in the fastnesses of the mount- 
ains, where none but the daring, agile 
hunter can find them. 

Here, too, I saw and heard a score of 
avalanches lazily moving down the glis- 



OVER THE WENGERN ALP ON FOOT. 6 1 

tening face of Jung-frau — tears shed by 
the Virgin at the wooing of the sun, yet 
leaving no stain upon her fair cheek. 
This is the famous Swiss depot for ava- 
lanches, and my expectation ran high ; 
but I was doomed to a sore disappoint- 
ment. An avalanche isn't much after all. 
It is composed principally of noise. They 
move with the voice of ten thousand 
thunders, but in the distance they look 
like narrow streams of powdered marble. 
Still I felt thankful that the voracious jaws 
of a great ravine were between me and 
danger, and that I ran no risk of being 
buried alive in an icy grave. All night 
long my sleep was broken by the un- 
earthly rumbling of some newly loosened 
mass of ice, as it went hurrying to the 
valley. 

In the morning I completed the nine- 



62 OVER THE WENGERN ALP ON FOOT. 

mile down hill journey to Grindelwald, 
and saw its two famous glaciers. Then, 
being foot-sore and weary, I took the dili- 
gence through a valley of unrivaled beauty 
back aeain to Interlaken. 



'jf^c^oss f r)e |^pur)iq fo Jjucerrie. 



V. 

ytr0$$ i\$ Jriimg in Jinuvm. 

^ROM Brientz to Alpnach, by dili- 
gence, over the Brunig Pass, is one 
of the most deh'ghtful rides in all Switzer- 
land, From the summit, where we pause 
a moment under the "hanging rock," 
the scene is most enchanting. For miles 
adown the valley the river Rhone stretches 
like a silver thread. Lake Brientz glis- 
tens in the distance, and just beyond 
Jung-frau seems like a fleecy cloud cHmb- 
ing up the sky. 

The down hill drive is surpassingly 

fine. It lacks the rugged grandeur of 
5 65 



66 ACROSS THE BRUNIG TO LUCERNE. 

the Tete-Noir, and, indeed, is thoroughly 
unalpine, though in the very heart of 
Switzerland. This, by the way, consti- 
tutes its pecuHar charm. For a time we 
lose sight of snow peaks and glittering 
ice, and drive through arbored avenues, 
through which we catch glimpses of quiet 
landscapes, rich in the verdure of their 
foliage. Mad mountain streams subside 
into a .respectable decorum, your chilled 
blood grows warm, things take on a 
home-like look, and without much stretch 
of the imagination you might easily fancy 
yourself among the Alleghanies. 

At last the valley is reached, and the 
strange guttural ''gee up" of the driver 
urges the horses into a lively canter. Lit- 
tle patches of grass and grain of various 
kinds are strangely intermingled, giving the 
landscape a variegated appearance. Har- 



ACROSS THE BRUNIG TO LUCERNE. 67 

vest has commenced, and the air is laden 
with the odor of new-mown hay. The 
Ruths and the Maud Mullers are the harvest- 
ers of Switzerland. They "bear the bur- 
den and heat of the day, " while the " lords 
of creation " do the planning in the shade. 

Into this fertile valley population crowds, 
and there is evidence on every hand of 
thrift and refinement. Many of the chalets 
are tastefully built, and are covered with 
grapevines, trained between the windows. 
From the upward slopes many fine man- 
sions, with castellated towers, look down 
upon you. 

At last you are awakened from the 
reverie which these scenes have engen- 
dered by the cry, as we round the bend, 
"There's the Rigi," and we know the 
end of our journey is near. Soon through 
the trees the glistening water is seen, and 



68 ACROSS THE BRUNIG TO LUCERNE. 

in a few moments more we stand on the 
shores of Lake Lucerne. It is called the 
lake of the Four Forest Cantons, a very 
appropriate name, as its waters lave the 
shores of four of the cantons of Switzer- 
land which here converge — Lucerne, Uri, 
Unterwalden, and Schwytz. Above all 
the lakes of the country, perhaps of the 
world, it is distinguished for the majesty 
of its scenery and the grandeur of its 
historical associations. Its shores are the 
scenes of William Tell's illustrious deeds, 
and the theater also of modern deeds 
of valor not surpassed by those of an- 
cient times. Sir James Mackintosh has 
written of it in these eloquent words: 
"The combination of whatever is grand- 
est in nature, with whatever is pure and 
sublime in human conduct, affected me 
more powerfully in the passage of this 



ACROSS THE BRUN/G TO LUCERNE. 69 

lake than any scene which I have ever 
seen. Perhaps neither Greece nor Rome 
would have had such power over me. 
They are dead. The present inhabitants 
are a new race, who regard with little or 
no feeling the memorials of former ages. 
This is, perhaps, the only place in our 
globe where deeds of pure virtue, ancient 
enough to be venerable, are consecrated 
by the religion of the people, and con- 
tinue to command interest and rever- 
ence. No local superstition so beautiful 
and so moral anywhere exists. The in- 
habitants of Thermopylae or Marathon 
know no more of these famous spots than 
that they are so many square feet of earth. 
England is too extensive a country to 
make Runnymede an object of national 
affection. In countries of industry and 
wealth the stream of events sweeps away 



70 ACROSS THE BRUNIG TO LUCERNE. 

these old remembrances. The soHtude 
of the Alps is a sanctury destined for the 
monuments of ancient virtue ; Grutli and 
Tell's chapel are as much reverenced by 
the Alpine peasants as Mecca by a devout 
Mussulman ; and the deputies of the three 
ancient cantons met, as late as 17 15, to 
renew their allegiance and their oaths of 
eternal union." 

I had just read this fine passage, as the 
little steamer puffed away from the wharf, 
and headed for the city of Lucerne at 
the upper end of the lake, and was con- 
sequently filled with such emotions as 
brought me into sympathy with my sur- 
roundings. 

The lake is, indeed, inexpressibly beau- 
tiful ; cruciform in shape, with number- 
less bays and inlets, charming nooks and 
retreats filled with the richest verdure. 



ACROSS THE BRUNIG TO LUCERNE. ?! 

Mountains hem it in. Mount Pilatus, 
stern, rugged, precipitous, on the right 
of the city, and on the left Rigi, a mass 
of variegated green, densely wooded, and 
dotted, for its whole height, with white 
farm-houses and chalets that seem to cling 
to the mountain side. Not strange is it 
to me now, that amidst this rugged scen- 
ery Tell's soul panted for liberty, and that 
through all these years the Swiss people 
have battled so heroically for freedom. 

Lucerne is charmingly situated just 
where the river Reuss leaps away from the 
lake's embrace. I stopped at the hotel 
Sweitzerhof, which I unhesitatingly pro- 
nounce the finest hotel in all Europe, at 
least, as far as my knowledge goes. As 
to its table and appointments it is unsur- 
passed. It stands facing the lake, and is 
fronted by a miniature park filled with 



72 ACROSS THE BRUNIG TO LUCERNE. 

floweis and fountains, which every even- 
ing is brilhantly illuminated and densely 
thronged by those attracted by the music 
of an excellent orchestra. But my great 
regard for this hotel arose from the fact 
that it was so much like our American 
hotels. My bill was actually squeezed 
into a single item, and when I took my 
departure I did not have to run the gaunt- 
let of waiters and porters and "boots," 
anxiously waiting for gratuities. On the 
inside of the door in each room in the 
house was a notice, requesting guests not 
to fee employes, as they were paid for 
their services. All this I enjoyed so thor- 
oughly that I feel like giving the hotel a 
free *'ad." 

Of course, my first pilgrimage of sight- 
seeing was to the famous lion of Lucerne, 
which is one of the noblest monuments 



ACROSS THE BRUNIG TO LUCERNE. 73 

and grandest designs in all Europe. It is 
impressive in its very simplicity, and stirs 
the uttermost depth of feeling to an ex- 
tent which no other single piece of sculp- 
ture in all Europe can do. I am confi- 
dent my companion and myself stood 
before this masterpiece fully half an hour, 
lost in admiration, without speaking; and 
when, at last, the silence was broken, we 
spoke in whispers. Imagine a huge preci- 
pice with perpendicular rock face, from the 
crevices of which water trickles into a 
little lake at the base. The precipice is 
fringed on its side and over its brow with 
trees, shrubbery, and ferns, a graceful 
drapery hung with nature's careless ease. 
In the solid rock is carved a dying lion. 
A broken spear is in his side, and the 
blood oozes from the wound. The agony 
of death is in his face. Still his e.yt flashes 



74 ACROSS THE BRUNIG TO LUCERNE. 

defiance, and his paw rests upon the shield 
bearing the Hhes of France, which, to his 
last breath, he seems determined to de- 
fend. The lion is twenty-eight feet long, 
and was designed by Thorvvaldsen to com- 
memorate the heroic death of eight hun- 
dred Swiss Guards, who perished while 
defending the Tuileries in 1792. A sol- 
dier, in the dress of a Swiss Guard, is 
present to repeat the story of their heroic 
death. Quite near at hand is the Glacial 
Garden, where, for a franc, you can study 
the geological formation of the Alps. 

The mention of one other peculiar feature 
of interest, must end our stay in this charm- 
ing little city. I refer to the two quaint 
covered foot-bridges across the Reuss, con- 
necting the two portions of the town. 
The people of olden time conceived the 
idea of making them the receptacles of 



ACROSS THE BRUNIG TO LUCERNE. 75 

paintings. None of them possess any 
particular artistic merit, and time has sadly 
defaced and marred them ; still, as a cu- 
riosity, they are well worth visiting and 
studying. On the Kapell bridge, sus- 
pended from the roof, about every ten 
feet, are pictures in triangular frames. 
Going through one way you behold scenes 
taken from Swiss history ; on the reverse 
side, as you return, you see the exploits 
of the patron saints of the town. In the 
Mill bridge, lower down the river, are 
found rude imitations of the paintings of 
the "Dance of Death" — a series of pic- 
tures, the originals of which were de- 
stroyed. The world was not a serious 
loser. I can name places where destruc- 
tion might begin again with great profit 
to humanity. 



'''ofe)ur)Fis£ 01) Irje n^^^* 



VI. 

;HIS happens about once in every 
two weeks. I do not mean that 
there ever comes a morning when the sun 
fails to rise, but his "coming forth out 
of his chamber" in rainy Switzerland is 
often obscured by lowering clouds, if not 
by black-browed tempests. Nowhere are 
storms so black as on Lake Lucerne, 
which ripples at the foot of Rigi. I 
reached this Mecca of my desire in such 
a storm. The mountains clothed them- 
selves in darkness, the rain fell in torrents, 
the eddying winds and rushing waves 

79 



8o SUNRISE ON THE RIGl. 

played with our boat as with a toy. Ever 
and anon the sword of fire cleft the dark- 
ness, followed by thunder peals which 
echoed long among the caverns of the 
hills. Drenched to the skin, I stepped 
from the rocking boat to the dock at Vitz- 
nau, the end of the inclined railway reach- 
ing to the summit of Rigi. This road is 
a marvel of engineering. It is four and 
a half miles in length, and its grade is 
one foot in every four. It passes through 
tunnels and over trestles innumerable. 
The cars are open, and seated like our 
summer street-cars. Frequently, as you 
look down over the edge of some giddy 
precipice, and see the mad mountain tor- 
rent lashing itself into foam on the jagged 
rocks five hundred feet below, you shrink 
back a trifle and hold your breath. The 
road is of ordinary gauge, is built on the 



SUNRISE ON THE RIG!. 8 1 

rod and pinion system, and is perfectly safe. 
The speed is about three miles per hour. 
When we reached the summit the storm 
still raged, and we abandoned all hope 
of seeing the sunrise in the morning. 
Our journey had been in vain. It was hard 
to bear, but we tried to possess our souls 
in peace. The great hotel was crowded, 
and expressions of sore disappointment 
were heard on every hand. In the vis- 
itors' album we found many melancholy 
records of disappointment, and took some 
comfort in the fact that nothing had be- 
fallen us which is not "common to men." 
The first half of the record of one expe- 
rience we were sure we had realized: 

".Seven weary uphill leagues we sped, 
The setting sun to see ; 
Sullen and grim he went to bed, 
Sullen and grim went we." 



82 SUNJ?ISE ON THE RIG I. 

And as we looked and listened, it 
seemed very much as though we were des- 
tined to realize the other half: 

"Nine sleepless hours of night we passed, 
The rising sun to see ; 
Sullen and grim he rose again, 
Sullen and grim rose we." 

It was the evening of the glorious 
Fourth of July, and although a score of 
Americans were in the hotel, I labored in 
vain to get up an impromptu patriotic 
demonstration. They were too cold among 
the clouds and too disappointed to "en- 
thuse." At eleven o'clock, wdien we all 
"turned in," the storm still beat furiously 
about the brow of the silent sentinel. 

At four o'clock in the morning, a man 
with a great horn went blowing through 
the halls, — enough to waken the dead. 
We all knew what that meant. The sky 



SUNRISE ON THE RIG I. 83 

was clear, and we were to see a sunrise 
after all. This is the old-time custom. 
Half an hour before sunrise, if the sky be 
at all clear, the Alpine horn sounds the 
reveille. In an instant all is noise and con- 
fusion. Morpheus is consigned to obliv- 
ion. The sleep)^ eye soon brightens ; the 
limbs, stiffened by the exertions of the 
preceding day, are lithe again in that 
exciting moment. The huge hotel is for 
once without a tenant. Men, coatless and 
hatless, rudely jostle one another in their 
efforts to get a good position. Women, 
for once in their lives, appear in public 
without consuming hours in making an 
elaborate toilet; and "if the eager crowd 
are not like the disciples of Zoroaster, 
ready to prostrate themselves before the 
great source of light and life, there are 
few whose thoughts do not turn in silent 



84 SUNRISE ON THE RIGI. 

adoration towards that mighty Hand which 
created the great light to rule the day." 

All stood shivering (for we were now 
nearly six thousand feet above the level 
of the sea) and in breathless expectation. 
The whole eastern sky was crimsoned. 
The banks of clouds, for there were some, 
looked like peaks of distant mountains. 
In the growing light I had but to turn 
round and look out on a panorama of 
landscape covering three hundred miles in 
circumference. From north to west, cov- 
ering three-fourths of the view, is an ocean 
of Alps, looking almost as close together 
as crests of billows in a storm. Many of 
them are snow-capped, with dull blue gla- 
ciers stretching from peak to peak across 
immense ravines. Jung-frau thirteen thou- 
sand seven hundred feet high, its com- 
panion. Wetter-horn, but little less; then 



SUNRISE ON THE RIGI. ^5 

Titlis and Rothstock ; and off to the east 
Dodi, Sentis, and Glarish, — these hoary 
sentinels of the Alps seemed piercing the 
very sky. You seem to look out on 
all the world. From such a mountain 
Satan must have tempted Christ. 

Look again. Three bright lakes wash the 
base of Rigi, while dark forests and green 
pastures hang upon its sides, except where 
its northern wall stands nearly perpendic- 
ular. Glimpses of thirteen lakes are had, 
looking like diamonds set in emeralds, 
green rivers, silvery streams, nestling vil- 
lages, and miles of harvest fields, A mur- 
mur of applause bursts from the expectant 
crowd. Above the distant horizon the 
edge of "the coming conqueror" appears, 
red as blood. With snail pace he creeps up- 
ward. The distant mountain peaks catch 
the golden light and throw it off their icy 



86 SUNRISE ON THE RIGI. 

shields. The first rays rested on the snow 
dome of giantess Jung-frau, then it was 
caught up by its companion domes a Httle 
lower, then successively by lower peaks and 
needles, and, as each mountain caught the 
blaze, the light spilled over the summit 
like water from an over-full vessel, and 
trickled gradually down the sides, till all 
the mountain tops and sides, looking west, 
were aglow with roseate hue. The burn- 
ing bush was reproduced before me. A 
hardy pine, standing solitary and alone 
upon a rocky cliff, seemed burning, but 
unconsumed. Had I not known better I 
should have actually thought it on fire. 
At length trees lower on the cliff caught 
the flame, and were kindled into an in- 
tensely luminous blaze, shooting up waves 
of flame into the sky. The optical delu- 
sion was perfect, and the experience, one 



SUNRISE ON THE RIGI. 87 

not soon to be forgotten. Soon the fire- 
king climbed the shoulder of the hill, and 
the whole landscape was bathed in glo- 
rious light. 

Our fondest hopes had been realized. 
We had seen a sunrise on Rigi, that was 
all we wanted, and while other weary- 
lookers on turned in for a morning's 
snooze, we left the region of the clouds, 
ere the sun had found the valle}-, by a 
path which leads at times through Alpine 
meadows, with grazing herds and singing 
mountaineers. 



tOLi^z fe(0rY)o ar)d /pillar). 



VII. 

hmrx uttb Mhn. 



^ROM the region of perpetual snow 
let us leap over the famous St. Got- 
thard Pass, thence down through the vine- 
clad slopes to the region of perpetual 
summer. But a sudden notion, which 
we look upon as an inspiration, causes us 
to leave the train at Lugano, and make a 
short detour, not included in our original 
itinerary, which, with all sight-seers, ought 
to be a very flexible affair. 

Lugano is a quaint old town, and 

although in the Swiss canton Ticino, — a 

little tongue of land nearly surrounded by 

Italian territory, which centuries ago was 

91 



92 LAKE CO MO AND MILAN. 

seized by the brave yeoman of the little 
towns among the Alps, — to all intents and 
purposes it is an Italian town. I found 
the little place in the bustle of excite- 
ment. The Tiro Federale, a bi-annual 
shooting carnival, open to all Swiss marks- 
men, had just commenced. The spacious 
grounds where the contest was held was 
just on the edge of the town, and was 
filled with a heterogeneous crowd. My 
thought went back to the tower of Babel 
as I listened to the strange jargon of 
French, German, Italian, and Spanish. 
"Side-shows" of every possible descrip- 
tion lined the grounds and the princi- 
pal thoroughfares of the town, reminding 
me of "circus day" at home. 

Towards evening I sauntered along the 
shore of the lake to catch, if I might, the 
glory of the departing sun. Hundreds of 



LAKE COMO AND MILAN. 93 

boatmen, proprietors of jaunty little skiffs, 
stood motioning for passengers, and prais- 
ing the qualities of their crafts. I especially 
remember one very demonstrative fellow, 
who, having in some way discovered my 
nationality, pointed with a look of triumph 
to a diminutive American flag fastened to 
the bow of his boat, thinking, no doubt, 
that by waking my patriotism he could 
secure a leverage on my patronage ; and 
I can never forget the withering look of 
fierce Italian disgust he threw after me as 
I passed on and left him. Soon I came 
to a statue of William Tell standing near 
the water's edge ; and not far away, be- 
neath a pavilion in a garden, is a fine bust 
of Washington, erected b}' an Italian resi- 
dent of Lugano, who amassed a large for- 
tune by commerce with the United States. 
The next morning I took steamer on 



94 LAKE COMO AND MILAN. 

Lake Lugano for Porlezza. This is the 
smallest and least frequented of the three 
Italian lakes, but is not the least beautiful 
of the three. It lies in the basin of the 
hills, with a rim of irregular contour, 
varying in height from a few hundred to 
four or five thousand feet, overhung by 
vine terraces, olive and chestnut groves, 
and gardens that seem suspended over the 
very water. White farm houses, villas, and 
chapels dot the wooded slopes. At Por- 
lezza the stage is taken, and a pleasant 
ride of nine miles brings us to the moun- 
tain summits which overhang Menaggio, 
and we catch our first glimpse of the lake 
of Come, whose charms were sung by 
Virgil two thousand years ago, and by 
many an admirer since. It is completely 
locked in by hills and mountains wooded 
to their very summits, which preclude all 



LAKE COMO AND MILAN. 95 

distant views, except that, at one point 
along the north, a somewhat lower ridge 
permits a prospect of the snow peaks of 
the far off Alps. The water of the lake 
is as blue as the sky above it. No pos- 
sible description could do justice to its 
surpassing beauty. I spent a day upon its 
placid bosom, and along its historic banks. 
A soft, thin haze hung on the shores and 
mountains, tempering the rays of the fierce 
Italian sun. It chanced to be a festival 
day. The fleets of boats that thronged 
the lake with awnings of divers tints ; the 
gaily decorated steamers ; the merry par- 
ties in holiday attire, that sought the 
sequestered coves that were formed by 
the tongues of land that jutted out into 
the lake ; the music that came floating 
over the placid water ; the delicious in- 
toxication of the air heavily laden with 



g6 LAKE COMO AND MILAN. 

magnolia bloom, — all have left on my 
memory an impression which can hardly 
be repeated or approached. Marble vil- 
las, half hidden by magnolia groves, con- 
taining the finest sculptures of Thorwald- 
sen and Canova, every once in a while 
break upon the enraptured vision. The 
villages on the shore are very numerous, 
and the villas of the Milanese famihes 
numberless, and often exquisitely beau- 
tiful, some of them really grotesque, yet 
having a fine effect as they peer out from 
the dense mass of foliage in which they 
are uniformly embosomed. 

From Como I went to Milan by rail. 
The great cathedral, of course, held the 
first place in my interest, and thither I 
wended my footsteps. The one thing 
which attracts a traveler's attention, espe- 
cially in Southern Europe are the cathe- 



LAKE CO MO AND MILAN. 97 

drals, vast piles of masonry, which have 
taxed to the utmost the skill of the most 
gifted architects of the ages, and out of 
which they have made undying reputations, 
if not vast fortunes. Every town, every 
city has its cathedral, and it is always 
considered the point of greatest interest 
to the tourist. They are, of course, Ro- 
man Catholic, and were built at a time 
when the voice of the Pope was thought 
to be the voice of God, and when his 
fingers turned the key that unlocked the 
coffers of the governments. The wealth 
of the nations was gathered into the lap 
of the Church, and each Pope desiring to 
perpetuate his fame became interested in 
the building of some great cathedral. The 
one at Milan is, beyond question, the most 
impressive of all the great cathedrals of Eu- 
rope, and, as it is the only one I shall under- 
7 



98 LAKE COMO AND MILAN. 

take to describe, permit me to go some- 
what into detail. It was commenced in 
1380, and has never since been without 
scaffolding and the noise of workmen. 
It is four hundred and seventy- seven feet 
long, one hundred and eighty-three feet 
high, and, in the interior, it is one hun- 
dred and fifty-five feet to the ceiling. It 
is cruciform in shape, and is supported in 
the interior by fifty-two carved capital 
columns, twelve feet in diameter. The 
floor is of marble mosaics of various rich 
patterns. The ceiling is deceptive. From 
the floor it looks like the finest carved 
ivory open work ; but is, in reality, only 
fresco. The tower is three hundred and 
sixty feet high, and affords a magnifi- 
cent view of the city, the distant Alps and 
Apennines, and the plain of Lombardy. 
It is reached by four hundred and ninety- 



LAKE COMO AND MILAN. 99 

four steps. The tower is surmounted by 
a colossal gilt statue of the Virgin. The 
wonderful marble roof supports ninety- 
eight Gothic turrets and hundreds of pin- 
nacles, each surmounted by a life-size statue 
of some saints. On the roof there are 
two thousand statues. Standing on the 
tower and gazing out it looks like a 
"peopled forest petrified." In the sun- 
light the marble assumes a flesh-like tint, 
and it takes but a touch of imagination to 
fancy yourself surrounded by a "glorified 
humanity." On and in the whole building 
there are six thousand life-sized statues, 
with niches for four thousand more. 

The cathedral is the outgrowth of the 
combined labors of two hundred of the 
foremost architects of Europe, and has 
cost already one hundred millions of dol- 
lars, and even then two thousand men 



lOO LAKE CO MO AND MILAN. 

worked gratuitously for twenty years upon 
it that their souls might be saved, as they 
believed. The marble cost nothing, as it 
came from quarries in the Apennines which 
were owned by the Church. Not inappro- 
priatel}' has this magnificent structure been 
called a "poem in marble," and charac- 
terized as the eighth wonder of the world. 
At first sight it is disappointing. It 
lacks the airy gracefulness of the Gothic, 
but the longer it is studied the more its 
beauty grows upon the beholder, until at 
last he comes to believe it belongs less to 
architecture than to sculpture, and then 
the disappointment vanishes. The interior 
is satisfying from the very first. As you 
push aside the leathern curtain which 
serves as a door, and advance through the 
broad center aisle skirted by immense pil- 
lars, look up at the star-studded vaulting, 



LAKE COMO AND MILAN. lOI 

watch the light mellowed and tinted by the 
richly stained windows streaming across 
the dusky chancel, and behold the hun- 
dreds of devout worshipers kneeling before 
the various altars, you are filled with 
feelings of profound reverence. Even the 
most frivolous stand in voiceless silence, 
with bared brow, filled with the spirit of 
confession and worship. With such sur- 
roundings one could scarce feel otherwise 
than devotional. While the poor and 
homeless of Italy have free access to these 
magnificent cloisters, where, in true sin- 
cerity, they think they can go and shake 
off the fetters of sin, which the cares and 
follies of life wind about them. Protestant- 
ism must struggle hard for a foothold. 

Being so close to it, we must stop a 
moment at the Victor Emmanuel Gallery, 
a glass-covered promenade, lined on either 



I02 LAKE COMO AND MILAN. 

side by fine shops, with four stories of 
offices and dwelHngs above. It is the 
finest arcade in the world, cruciform in 
shape, and covering a whole square. It is 
seen to best advantage at night, when the 
octagon under the dome (one hundred and 
eighty feet high) is brihiantly lighted, and 
when the entire population of the city 
seems to throng these canopied avenues. 
But we can not leave Milan with- 
out looking upon that famous picture of 
the Last Supper by Leonardo da Vinci, 
which the steel engraver's art has made 
familiar to the whole world. The fresco 
covers one entire wall in the refectory be- 
longing to the convent of the Sante Marie 
della Grazie. The room is small and 
poorly lighted, giving the beholder but an 
imperfect view. The picture has suffered 
much from the smoke of incense from cen- 



LAKE CO MO AND MILAN. 103 

sers in tlie hands of over-zealous priests, 
and by the fumes from a neighboring 
kitchen. Several times the building has 
been inundated, and the consequent damp- 
ness has sadly marred the picture. In 
the time of that fierce iconoclast Napoleon 
I, the room was used as a stable, and a 
doorway, which reached well up into the 
table-spread, was cut through the wall 
bearing the picture. In many places the 
paint has peeled off and hangs like scales. 
By a recent process the picture has been 
given integrity, and further decay ren- 
dered impossible. While other parts are 
sadly defaced, it is a remarkable fact that 
there is not one of the thirteen counte- 
nances which does not retain its expression. 
There is no other picture in Europe before 
which so many artists are constantly 
gathered, each engaged in making copies. 



I04 LAKE CO MO AND MILAN. 

I suppose I should lay myself liable to 
the criticism of pedantry were I to say that 
modern painters display more skill and 
real genius, both in conception and exe- 
cution, than did the old masters whom 
everybody praises — but still I think it. 
The latter only excelled in the "art" of 
mixing colors. The themes on which they 
painted gave their work immortality, and 
not the intrinsic merit of the work itself. 
The historic connections surrounding many 
of these old pictures, the superstitious 
care with which the Romish Church guards 
the effects of their Popes, the blind rever- 
ence which many people give to "age" in 
any thing, regardless of defects, — these are 
all that have saved many a "famous" pic- 
ture, now worth thousands of dollars, from 
standing dust covered in some dark cellar. 

If to-day there could be unearthed 



LAKE CO MO AND MILAN. 1 05 

from the ruins of some crumbling old 
monastery a well-authenticated painting by 
one of the recognized masters of the olden 
time, which dissatisfied priests had con- 
signed to ablivion because it fell below 
the art standard of the age in which it 
was executed, there could be found wealthy 
Englishmen, and especially wealthy Amer- 
icans, who would pay a fabulous price to 
become its possessor, and the connoisseur 
would fill our magazines and journals with 
his well-paid lines respecting the "rich, 
rare, priceless treasure" which had been 
exhumed from the grave of the past. 
Such is the superstitious reverence which 
we of this age pay to gray hair. 

The Last Supper, by Leonardo da Vinci, 
of which I have spoken ; the Last Judgment, 
by Michael Angelo, in the Sistine Chapel ; 
the Transfiguration, by Raphael, in the 



Io6 LAKE CO MO AND MILAN. 

Vatican; the Sistine Madonna, by Raphael, 
at Dresden ; and the Descent from the Cross, 
by Rubens, at Antwerp, are, to my mhid, 
the five great pictures of Europe coming 
down to us from the old school — and yet I 
will guarantee to find finer work, looked at 
in any light, among the modern paintings 
in the National Gallery at Berlin or the 
Louvre at Paris. Angelo, Raphael, Ru- 
bens, Titian, Correggio, Da Vinci, live 
to-day in the thought of all, because they 
dipped their brushes in the holy light of 
heaven, and thus secured immortality. 
Their masterpieces are priceless, simply 
and only, because they are representations 
of scenes that are dear to the great heart 
of the world, and because of their historic 
associations. But I wander from my pur- 
pose in this little monograph, and, before 
getting into deep water, call a halt. 



IP 



apies and \7esuvius. 



VIII. 

;HE saying has passed into proverb, 

"See Naples and die, there is 

nothing better to see." This may have 

been true of the ancient Naples, but the 

traveler to modern Naples sees much to 

make him sick at heart, and is filled with 

an intense desire to live at least long enough 

to get out of it. Beautiful for situation 

she is, indeed, sitting as a queen on the 

edge of the blue Mediterranean. There 

is, probably, no other city in Europe 

around which cluster so many charming 

109 



no NAPLES AND VESUVIUS. 

associations. It is the metropolis of a re- 
gion in itself gloriously beautiful, " full of 
sites of transcendent mythological and 
historical interest, and rich in memorials 
of ancient wealth, luxury, and art." 

Here you wander among the scenes 
of many of the most sublime descriptions, 
both of Pliny and Virgil. To the stu- 
dent there is excruciating pleasure in trac- 
ing the wanderings of vEneas and examin- 
ing the abode of Charon. One feels so 
absolutely certain about every thing. The 
glib-tongued guide tells so straight a 
story, — and then here are the physi- 
cal demonstrations. Should you show the 
least hesitation in accepting these well-au- 
thenticated facts you are instantly branded 
as an infidel. 

But how can a mistake be possible? 
Here is the Grotto del Cane, sending up 



NAPLES AND VESUVIUS. 1 1 1 

from its far depths spasmodic puffs of vapor, 
heavily charged with carbonic acid gas. 
This grotto is mentioned by PHny as one of 
"Charon's breathing holes," and a little 
touch of imagination quickly transforms 
the intermittent vapor bursts into the 
excited breathings of some fire -eating 
giant of the under-world. Several times 
a day, during the busy season, a dog is 
thrust into the aperture, but is thrown 
into a state of asphyxia by Charon's 
broath. He is soon, however, reanimated 
by exposure to the air, and is ready for 
another experiment by the time the next 
company of Plinyian students arrive. 

Near by, is the spot where Virgil has 
laid the successive scenes of the descent 
of yEneas into the infernal regions, and 
surely it would be difficult to find a more 
natural entrance to the fiery kingdom of 



1 1 2 NAPLES AND VESUVIUS. 

Pluto ; and ghastly enough are the sur- 
roundings to cause one to think that not 
far away is the "seat of his lurid court." 
Quite close at hand are the Elysian 
Fields and the cave of the Cumsean Sibyl. 
To the latter (history tells us) nnultitudes 
came to consult the "oracle," who was, 
probably, a crazy old woman, whose some- 
times shrewd guesses had gained for her a 
considerable notoriety, and whose "high- 
flown words were regarded as tokens of 
inspiration." This is the best authenti- 
cated of the many Virgilian sites, for here 
you see the sibyl's bed and bath and seat, 
as well as the little opening through the 
outer wall, through which she gave her 
oracles. What more could the most in- 
credulous demand ? And then, to make 
assurance doubly sure, near by is the tomb 
of Virgil, which testifies to his consist- 



NAPLES AND VESUVIUS. 1 13 

ency. All these sites are just on the edge 
of Naples. 

But not yet is your enchanting survey 
complete. Take your stand in the castle 
of St. Elmo, built on an eminence in 
upper Naples, and let your eye sweep out 
over the magnificent landscape. There 
to your right, nestling on the silver edge 
of the bay, is Pozzuoli, the Puteoli where 
it is said Paul stopped seven days on his 
way to Rome. Yonder to the left, across 
the neck of the bay, from the orange and 
lemon groves, the white villas of Sor- 
rento — a port of considerable importance, 
and the birthplace of Tasso — peer out at 
you. The situation is enchanting beyond 
all description, and the whole shore-line, 
as far as the eye can carry, presents 
an Eden-like appearance. The eye flashes 
across fifteen miles of rippling water 



1 14 NAPLES AND VESUVIUS. 

until it is arrested by the rocky slopes of 
Capri, a circular island nearly three miles 
in diameter, lifting itself out of the bay. 
Underneath is the famous Blue Grotto, 
and on its summit are the crumbling ruins 
of the twelve palaces built by Tiberius. 
Yet further to the right, and off on the 
fringe of vision, smoking Ischia clouds 
the western sky. But, standing sentinel 
over all, the eye turns first and last to the 
treeless slopes of fiery old Vesuvius, with 
the buried cities of Pompeii and Hercu- 
laneum at its base. Surel)^ our standing 
place seems like a verj' Pisgah height, 
from which we get glimpses of the prom- 
ised land. And were this all of Naples, 
and were it not irreligious, we might say, 
in sympathy with the oft-made statement 
with which this chapter opened, "Now 
lettest thou thy servant depart in peace." 



NAPLES AND VESUVIUS. II5 

But first, let us go to lower Naples 
and mingle with its pe()[)le. Never have 
I seen such squalidncss and filth. Never 
have I seen beggary so reduced to a pro- 
fession. In a ride of twenty minutes 
along the narrow streets of Naples a dozen 
hideous specimens of humanity, half-naked 
and covered with filth, will crowd the steps 
of your carriage, piteously asking for alms. 
The poorer people live almost wholly out 
of doors, the winter's sunshine being pref- 
erable to the damp atmosphere of the 
earthen-floored and windowless tenement- 
houses. They have no domestic life worthy 
of the name. They wander aimlessly from 
place to place, and when hungry pre-empt 
a curbstone, and over a pan filled with char- 
coal embers cook their little bite, then coil 
themselves up, just out of the way of pass- 
ers-by, and go to sleep in the sun. 



Tl6 NAPLES AND VESUVIUS. 

"At home" for these poor Neapoli- 
tans has various meanings. Under the 
huge porticoes and gateways, under the 
porches reaching over the walkways, 
and on the steps leading from lower to 
upper Naples, they make their bed, when 
they can not put together the two or 
three soldi to pay for a bed or apart 
of a bed, in the so-called locanda, or 
lodging-house, of the lowest order. These 
are to be found chiefly in the quarter 
of the Porte. Enter them, if you have 
the courage, and you will find in a dark 
and ill ventilated room, six, eight, or 
ten beds, and often in one and the same 
bed are an entire family. The lodging- 
keepers positively assure you that the men 
are kept in one room and the women in 
another ; but the police, w^ho often enter 
them to seek for suspected persons, tell 



NAPLES AND VESUVIUS. II7 

quite a different story. It is heartsick- 
ening in these quarters to see the vast 
number of homeless, nameless, abandoned 
children who could tell you neither who 
their mothers were nor where they were 
born ; whose ostensible trade is begging, 
fetching cabs, selling newspapers, and run- 
ning errands — naked, barefooted, hideous, 
covered with scars, and often wounds. 
These little nomads have a language of 
their own, and when they are starving 
will never part with their knife or dagger, 
which they keep concealed in their rags, 
and which you ma)\ see them clutching 
even in their sleep. These lodging-houses 
are dens of every imaginable vice, the 
infant schools of these man-abandoned 
urchins of Naples. After midnight they 
swarm in these dens, and in the morning 
disperse to their various callings, taking 



Il8 NAPLES AND VESUVIUS. 

care to pay for their "shake down," 
landlords and pohcemen being their only- 
idea of authority. When children are 
allowed to grow up in such an atmosphere 
as this, is it any wonder that Naples is 
filled with indolent and vicious men ? 

Strange to sa}-, little change has taken 
place in the treatment of the poor in 
Naples in the last thirty years. The lower 
stratum of society is too densely peopled to 
hope for rapid elevation. There is no 
lack of charitable institutions. There are 
three hundred and forty-nine, with an an- 
nual income of seven million francs. But 
the trouble lies in the fact that the rev- 
enues are not well administered. Most 
of the edifices serve to house priests, 
friars, monks, and nuns, and no one 
knows what share of the income is di- 
verted from its original purpose, and is 



NAPLES AND VESUVIUS. II9 

used in keeping up the king's palaces. 
Royalty and popery are the curses of 
Italy to-day. They grind the people, keep 
them poor, and make beggary an absolute 
necessity. When shall Protestantism de- 
liver it from both ? 

But before leaving Naples we must 
look down the red throat of Vesuvius. 
For three days we have seen the ' ' pillar 
of cloud by day, and the pillar of fire by 
night." From the veranda of the Hotel 
Vesuvius we have watched the waves of 
flame light up the black brow of night, 
causing the clouds in the background to 
take on the form of spectral armies march- 
ing through the sky. 

An irresistible desire fills us to make the 
ascent, and stand on the rim of the crater. 
We are warned on every hand that the 
journey will be hard to make and tho- 



120 NAPLES AND VESUVIUS. 

roughly unprofitable. Weary mortals with 
scorched shoes and stiffened limbs, just 
back from the excursion, implore us to 
desist. But, regardless of entreaties, we 
determine to make the journey. How 
humiliating it would be, back in America, 
when asked about Vesuvius, to be com- 
pelled to acknowledge that we did not 
make her personal acquaintance, although 
we stood on the hem of her garment. 

There are two ways to reach the 
crater. One, by carriage across the plain 
and part way up the ascent to the in- 
cline railway hanging upon the side of 
the mountain, then from the upper sta- 
tion, on foot, to the summit ; the other, 
by railway to Pompeii, then by ponies 
to the lava fields, then on foot to the 
crater. We chose the latter, because less 
expensive and because being crowded 



NAPLES AND VESUVIUS. 121 

for time, we could "kill two birds with 
one stone." 

The ride by rail from Naples to Pom- 
peii, although short, is full of engrossing- 
interest. For the whole distance the blue 
bay is in view, hung along its edge with 
olive, orange, and lemon groves. When 
the brakeman shouts " Herculaneum," 
what memories crowd upon one. This 
ancient city was flooded with molten lava, 
which, on cooling, became a flinty rock. 
The work of excavation has consequently 
been slow, and but little has been done in 
all these years. A few moments more 
and Pompeii is reached. Here the pick 
and the shovel have accomplished won- 
ders in bringing to light the long buried 
monuments of the past. Pompeii was en- 
tombed in ashes, which renders the work 
of excavation comparatively easy. For 



122 NAPLES AND VESUVIUS. 

centuries the site of this cit}' was lost. 
About one hundred and fifty years ago, 
in building an aqueduct, through which to 
bring water from the mountains into Na- 
ples, workmen came upon some ruins 
which attracted attention. For fifty years 
but little was done towards discovering 
their extent. About one hundred years 
ago the Italian government commenced 
the work of excavation, and now about 
one-third of the ancient city is open for 
the inspection of visitors. The work is 
progressing with a languor characteristic 
of southern Italy, but almost every day 
some new treasures are discovered. 

But the ponies stand waiting before the 
door of the Pompeiian inn, and we must be 
off for the summit. A score of dark-faced 
guides, who look as though they might cut 
your throat for a franc, crowd around and 



NAPLES AND VESUVIUS. 1 23 

offer their services. We think the one 
already secured sufficient, and whip into a 
hvely canter to rid ourselves of their pres- 
ence ; but what is our astonishment, to find 
them at our heels propelling themselves 
along by clutching the pony's tail. They 
know that the time is not far distant 
when, tired out with our exertions, we will 
pay them almost any price for their 
assistance. 

On we ride, at first through innumerable 
vineyards, purple with ripening clusters; 
past tastefully built cottages, surrounded 
by luxuriant gardens, and embowered by 
trees bending with their luscious fruits. 
The thought of possible danger seems not 
to slacken the efforts of the husbandman. 
He tends his crops and builds his home 
right under the blazing summit of Vesu- 
vius. The pent up fury may at any mo- 



124 NAPLES AND VESUVIUS. 

ment roll down upon him in a tide of 
desolation and death, but he is willing to 
take the chances, and hopes to have suffi- 
cient premonition to permit of his escape. 

We push our upward way by a zigzag 
path, until the timber line is reached, and 
the vast lava field begins. Here we leave 
the ponies and continue the journey on 
foot. This lava field, as you look over it, 
very much resembles an ice gorge in the 
time of a spring freshet, save that it is as 
black as ink. The lava has cooled in the 
most fantastic shapes, and only over the 
well-beaten path can you make your way 
with any safety or comfort. 

A steady look, kindled by the torch of 
imagination, will enable you to trace the 
contour of animals, ruined abbeys, and 
scores of other things in the irregular 
folds of the black lava, ribbed as they are 



NAPLES AND VESUVIUS. 125 

with diminutive jagged mountain ranges ; 
just as in the long ago, you have found 
landscapes and castles and human faces 
in the dying embers of the grate. 

Every once in a while a lazy stream of 
molten lava comes seeping through a fis- 
sure in the black rock. It is needless to 
say that we weighted ourselves down with 
chunks of lava, into which, when hot, we 
had dropped coins, which, on cooling, 
held them in their flinty grip. 

Beyond the lava beds, and near the 
cone of the mountain, the field of ashes 
begins. Here the climbing is exceedingly 
laborious. At very step we sink ankle 
deep in the soft ashes, and soon tired 
nature calls for assistance. Now begins 
the triumph of the persistent horde 
of guides, who have dogged our every 
footstep. A provoking look of satisfac- 



126 NAPLES AND VESUVIUS. 

tion sits on every face, as we in our state 
of sheer exhaustion are compelled to call 
for their services, and pay them the out- 
rageous price they ask. The bargain be- 
ing struck, one fellow passes a rope over 
his shoulders, which we clutch, another 
gets behind and pushes, and thus as- 
sisted we trudge for an hour through 
the ashes, until we reach the rim of Vesu- 
vius and look down into the smoking 
crater. 

We were unfortunate in visiting Vesu- 
vius when the volcano was unusually ac- 
tive, and a very few moments of inspec- 
tion satisfied us. The hot rocks soon 
scorched our shoes, the smoke blinded 
us, the fumes of chloride of sulphur which 
came up from the seething caldron below 
nearly suffocated us, and gasping, and 
dizzy, and half dead we groped our way 



NAPLES AND VESUVIUS. I 27 

into the fresh air, feeling that we had 
stood at the mouth of sheol — glad, after 
all, that we made the venture, )'et hav- 
ing some cause for wishing we hadn't. 



)r)e l\0n-)Q:r) l^uir). 




IX. 

'ITH but time to take one glimpse 
at "the lone mother of dead em- 
pires," in which way shall we direct our 
gaze? Standing on one of the fabled 
"seven hills," we look out upon the sad- 
dest and grandest city in all the world. 
"Wherever we move we tread upon some 
history." Ruins, eloquent with the story 
of perished glory, lift their gloomy forms 
in all directions, while over the shattered 
sepulcher of the Rome that was, and out 
of the mold and ashes of twenty cen- 
turies, has arisen another Rome, whose 



132 ONE ROMAN RUIN. 

stately palaces and gorgeous cathedrals 
but dimly commemorate her departed 
glory. 

Yonder, leaning against the blue of the 
Italian sky, is the magnificent dome of 
St. Peter's, which Michael Angelo lifted 
out of the Campagna. Not far distant, 
is the massive castle of Angelo standing 
on the edge of the historic Tiber, and 
surmounted by the bronze statue of an 
angel sheathing his sword — the material- 
ization of the night vision of Pope Gregory 
during the days when pestilence was doing 
its dreadful work. 

Near by stands the column of Trajan, 
with its twenty-six hundred figures in bas- 
relief; farther off, nestling on the bank of 
the river, is the charming little temple of 
Vesta. Another gaze is arrested by the 
graceful Arch of Titus, whose marvelous 



ONE R OMAN R UIN. 133 

bas-relief figures give us increased confi- 
dence in the Scripture narrative. From 
our point of vision we also get glimpses 
of the gigantic ruins of the baths of Cara- 
calla, still retaining some vestige of their 
former grandeur. Here also is the Pan- 
theon, the oldest and best preserved of 
the ancient Roman buildings, in which the 
remains of the immortal Raphael and of 
Victor Emmanuel, the first king of United 
Italy, lie side by side. 

Let the eye sweep out over the Cam- 
pagna, and in many directions you see the 
broken arches of stupendous aqueducts, 
yet well preserved. The road reaching 
across the green meadows and climbing 
in the distance the Sabine hills, is the Ap- 
pian Way, a military road constructed 
two centuries before Christ, extending to 
Brindisi, on the Adriatic coast. But we 



134 ONE ROMAN RUIN. 

must narrow our vision, and as we are to 
describe in detail but one Roman ruin, we 
shall select the most impressive of all — 
that "tragedy in stone," the Colosseum. 
In the year 70 of the Christian era 
Titus, at the head of the Roman army, 
accomplished the destruction of Jerusa- 
lem, and took home with him to Rome 
twelve thousand Jewish prisoners. The 
"divine" Vespasian sat upon the throne 
of the Caesars, a man given to revelry 
and licentiousness. For a long time he 
had been looking for some means by which 
he could push his fame into the genera- 
tions that were yet to come. Rome, with 
its two million of population, furnished 
sport for all the world. Gladitorial con- 
tests were much in vogue, yet no build- 
ing in all Rome was large enough to hold 
the immense crowds which gathered to 



ONE ROMAN RUIN. 135 

witness these brutal exhibitions of phys- 
ical courage and endurance. Here was 
a chance to curry favor with the people, 
and at the same time to make a reputa- 
tion for himself which should go sound- 
ing through the centuries. Ground was 
broken, the twelve thousand Jewish slaves 
were set to work, and the greatest amphi- 
theater of all time was commenced in the 
year 72 A. D. Its circumference is 
one-third of a mile. It is an ellipse in 
shape, its long diameter six hundred and 
fifteen feet, and its short diameter five 
hundred and ten feet. It is four stories 
in height, and is an appropriate blend- 
ing of different styles of architecture. 
The first story is of the Doric order, its 
massive piers and pilasters being sugges- 
tive of strength. In the midst of his ma- 
turing plans Vespasian passes from the 



136 ONE ROMAN RUIN. 

scene of action, and Titus, his son, ascends 
the throne to take up the work where his 
father left it. The second story is of the 
Ionic order, and, while it partakes some- 
what of the Doric, is less massive, and is 
relieved of heaviness by graceful arches. 
The third and fourth stories built by 
Titus and his successor, Domitian, pos- 
sess the lightness and airiness of the Co- 
rinthian order of architecture. The entire 
height of the building is one hundred 
and fifty-six feet. The amphitheater was 
so built as to accommodate about eighty- 
seven thousand people. The seats were 
in tiers rising rapidly, one above another, 
to the number of sevent}^ each tier so 
elevated as to admit its occupants to 
look over the heads of those below them. 
The seats surrounded an arena large 
enough for the conflicts of a little army 



ONE ROMAN RUIN. 137 

of wild beasts, or the manceuvers of a 
regiment of gladiators. The building had 
no roof, but the spectators were pro- 
tected by awnings. 

This gigantic masterpiece of Roman 
architecture was seven years in process 
of construction, and was completed early 
in the year 80 A. D. The inaugural 
services occupied thirty days, and during 
that time ten thousand men and five thou- 
sand wild beasts were slain. Such is the 
history of the ancient Flavian Amphi- 
theatre, for such it was called until the 
eighth century, when a proverb appeared 
couched in these words: "While stands 
the Colosseum, Rome will stand." The 
name seems to have been given on 
account of its great size, or, as some 
think, because a colossal statue of Nero 
stood in it. 



138 ONE ROMAN RUIN, 

The Colosseum remained entire until 
the eighth century ; its destruction then 
began as a militar}^ necessity. In the 
twelfth century it began to be used as a 
quarry. A building craze had struck 
Rome, and it was much easier to get 
stone and marble here which had already 
felt the edge of the mason's chisel, to put 
into palaces and cathedrals, than to go 
off to the mountains for it. Cardinal 
Farnese was the first to take of these ma- 
terials for these purposes ; it is said he 
extorted a reluctant consent from his 
uncle, Paul Til, that he might take as 
much stone as he could carry away in 
twelve hours. Unhappily his shrewdness 
was equal to the emergency; he brought 
four thousand workmen, and got enough 
for liis purpose in the allotted time. 

During the last century the feeling has 



ONE R OMA N R UIN. 1 3 9 

changed ; '' Rome lives by her ruins," and 
she has at last awakened to the fact that 
she can not afford to have them further 
tampered with. The bloody hand of war, 
rocking earthquakes, intense conflagra- 
tions, the tooth of time, and the rapacity 
of man have all combined to obliterate 
this marvelous piece of ancient architec- 
ture, and yet it stands "the most pic- 
turesque, the most perfect, and the most 
instructive ' wilderness of ruin ' in the 
imperial city ; a monument of misfortunes 
clothed with dignity, and sorrows crowned 
with grandeur." Patches of modern ma- 
sonry are now visible in many parts of the 
building, which have been inserted to hold 
the old together ; and Pope Benedict XIV, 
about a century ago, partly in order to 
constitute further dilapidation an act of 
sacrilege, consecrated the entire edifice as 



I40 ONE ROMAN RUIN. 

a Christian church in memory of the numer- 
ous martyrs who, from this arena ' ' passed 
through a bloody death to heaven." 

There is now a rude pulpit in the cen- 
ter, with stations for worship in various 
parts of the arena, and I was never there 
in the daytime without seeing numerous 
suppliants kneeling at these shrines. 

But how changed from the glory of the 
former days! The seats have now fallen 
into decay ; ferns struggle for an existence 
in the crevices of the rocks ; the arena 
and the sloping sides are grass grown, and 
the smile of the flowers speaks of the 
better days that have come. Underneath 
the arena are the subterranean dens in 
which the wild animals were confined until 
they were maddened by hunger ; then, on 
a platform, they were raised until on a 
level with the arena, and then they leaped 



ONE ROMAN RUIN. I41 

out to meet the gladiators who were in 
waiting for them, I also saw the subter- 
ranean canal — its massive stone sides still 
covered with green slime, giving plain 
evidence of the water's action — in which 
the dead bodies of gladiators and animals 
were thrown and carried out into the cur- 
rent of the Tiber. 

A moonlight visit to the Colosseum is 
one of the experiences of a lifetime. The 
massive building stands just a little apart 
from the present city, and Rome is so 
dimly lighted and so very still at night. 
Over the stone pavement of the Forum, 
which once resounded with the tread of 
Roman senators, you grope your way. 
Here Cicero awed into breathless silence 
the thousands who hung upon his words ; 
here was the "theater of immortal elo- 
quence and the center of imperial power." 



142 ONE ROMAN RUIN. 

To the right, the Arch of Constantine 
lifts its gloomy form, spanning the tri- 
umphal way ; to the left, the Colosseum. 
Startled at your own footfalls, you clam- 
ber over the recently exhumed rocks and 
enter its dark portals, and then such deep 
arches ; such heavy, widening shadows ; 
such dreary vaults and passages ; such 
sudden flashes of moonlight, as one emerges 
from them ; such sepulchral sounds ; such 
weird, ghost-like forms, as visitors and 
guides step from under the dark arches 
and suddenly appear to one another ; 
such "somber memories of the night 
side of humanity which seem to project 
themselves visibly on that once bloody 
arena " — all these conspire to make a 
moonlight visit to the Colosseum a mem- 
orable experience, one never to be for- 
gotten. 



ONE ROMAN RUIN. 1 43 

Before us and around us rise the ruined 
walls, upon whose sloping sides ninety- 
thousand spectators could once be seated. 
We stand upon the grass-grown central 
space, which was the arena where gladia- 
tors fought and Christians suffered for 
their faith. Many and many a time, for 
the repression of the new religion, were 
these put to a shameful and painful death. 
Among them were strong men and tender 
women who might have had life for the 
simple recantation of their faith, and even 
little children, who came running to the 
cruel executioners, crying, "We are 
Christians, we are Christians," begging 
to be permitted to die with their par- 
ents in joyful confession of their parents' 
faith. 

For centuries these things continued, 
but in 403 A. D. it is said, a monk, 



144 ONE R OMA N R UIN. 

named Telemachus, moved by pity and 
horror at what he saw, ran into the arena 
and Hfted up his hands and voice in an 
agony of appeal to the people to give up 
these cruel practices. The people, indig- 
nant at this interruption to their sports, 
actually stoned him to death, and called 
for further scenes of blood ; yet scarcely 
two years had passed before the Em- 
peror Honorius forbade its further indul- 
gence as inconsistent with the spirit of 
Christianity. 

So the years have passed, bringing 
with them their blessings to humanity. 
But there stands the Colosseum to teach 
us what the world would be without the 
Gospel. The sound of revelry is hushed. 
No longer do excited, lawless rabbles 
gather with shouts to see the flesh torn 
from the bones of the luckless combatant. 



ONE ROMAN RUIN. 145 

Flowers bloom in the once bloody arena, 
wearing forever upon their fair petals a 
deep blush at the inhumanity of the past, 
and the Christ, whom Paul preached, rules 
in Rome. 




X. 



HEN John Howard Payne, far 
across the sea, in a land strange to 
him, wrote "Home, Sweet Home," he 
wrote a song that shall be immortal. It 
was the rhyming of his own heart's ex- 
perience, and it is the one song of the 
ages that awakens a sympathetic chord 
in every human heart. Towering mount- 
ains, silvery lakes, marble palaces, lofty 
domes, matchless painting and sculpture, 
at last lose their attractions, and we long 
for the loved faces and familiar haunts of 

home. So I found it ; and when once the 

149 



ISO HOMEWARD BOUND. 

longing filled my soul the hours seemed 
days until the time of departure came. 
At last I stood on the ocean shore, with 
my face turned westward. The good ship, 
soon to sail, rode at anchor a mile away. 
A "lighter" conveyed us on board. The 
anxiously looked-for hour came at last. 
The anchor was weighed, the sail unfurled 
to catch the favoring breeze, the measured 
throbbing of the machinery was heard, 
and we steamed out to sea. 

A few hours, and land had receded from 
our view, and nothing could be seen but a 
trackless waste of waters. Then followed 
ten days of pitching, tossing, and rolling, 
accompanied by sickness indescribable. 
It seemed like ten months, and I was led 
to conclude that I was about as poor a sailor 
as I was preacher. But at last, one bright 
morning, the steep Jersey cliffs broke 



HOMEWARD BOUND. 151 

upon our anxious vision. In a few hours 
we had passed Sandy Hook and were 
steaming up New York bay. Tears of 
thankfuhiess streamed from many an eye, 
and more than once was heard the ex- 
pression, "Thank God, we are home." 

Soon the towers of the great Brooklyn 
Bridge and the spires of New York stood 
out against the sky. Slowly we neared 
the pier, where hundreds of anxious 
friends stood waiting to welcome loved 
ones ; handkerchiefs were waved, and tears 
of gratitude moistened many cheeks. A 
moment more, and above the noise and 
confusion the captain shouted, "Make her 
fast"; the bridge was lowered, and like 
children off for a holiday, men and women 
rushed down, pell-mell, to receive the em- 
braces of friends, and plant their feet 
once more on American soil. 



152 HOME WARD BO UND. 

The feelings and sensations of that hour 
can not be described. I fancy it was some- 
thing like the scene which shall be enacted 
when we reach our eternal home, where 
partings are forever over. The only wish 
I had in that hour was, that when I reach 
the eternal shore I shall find more friends 
to receive and welcome me than I found 
on the shores of my native land. What 
would heaven be without a welcome ? 

Yes, America, daughter of the sea, last 
born, though absent from thee in lands 
which were full grown before thou wast 
born, in lands sung of by poets and im- 
mortahzed in story, still I come back to 
thee with a stronger love and devotion 
than I have ever known before. Land of 
as lofty mountains, of as fertile plains, 
of as charming lakes, of as noble rivers, 
of as blue skies, of as brilliant foliage, of as 



HOMEWARD BOUND. 1 53 

luscious fruits, as any land on which the 
sun looks in his journey round the globe; 
land where every man is a king, and 
where no shackles bind and no chains gall; 
land of pluck, energy, and thrift ; land 
built on the sure foundation of civil and 
religious liberty ; land destined to be- 
come the lighthouse of the world— yes, 
America, thank God, I am thy son, and 
that once more my feet press thy soil. 

Talk about the Rhine, the Danube, the 
Alps, the sunny, trellised slopes and 
ruined castles of Italy ! Americans run 
wild over European tours, and talk rap- 
turously of sights abroad, when right here 
in our own land, within easy reach of the 
poorest, are sights and scenes that, for 
grandeur and sublimity, can not be ex- 
celled in the whole world. Our Yose- 
mite, and Niagara, and Hudson ; our Mam- 



154 HOMEWARD BOUND. 

moth Cave, White Mountains, and Royal 
Gorge, are spots where the Great Archi- 
tect has wrought most dexterously, and 
left the impress of his matchless power. 
When Americans have visited, in our own 
land, all the places where God's smiles 
have crystallized, then let them go sight- 
seeing across the water, and not before. 
They will thus be relieved from many a 
blush on the other side of the sea, and 
many a charge of pedantry on this side. 
It is simply amusing, in illustration of 
this thought, to discover how many Amer- 
icans there are traveling in the Old World 
who are thoroughly ignorant of the land 
of their birth. The simplest question in 
geography completely puzzles them ; and 
to hear them struggling with localities 
when questioned by some bright, well- 
posted foreigner, is one of the rich diversions 



HOMEWARD BOUND. 1 55 

of a trip abroad. Indeed, one has quite 
as much real fun at the expense of Amer- 
ican shoddy aristocracy, which, of late 
years, flood Europe during the summer 
months, as through any other source. 
You find this class of people in every 
hotel. They usually travel in families. 
You see the father, swelling with import- 
ance, thumbs in vest, strutting in lordly 
mien through the corridors of the hotel, 
awing into silence the call-boys, who really 
look upon him as a millionaire. 

Fortune has usually come to such as a 
surprise. A sudden rise in real estate, a 
bubbling spring of oil, a mineral paint 
vein, or the death of a "dear relative," fills 
the pockets of an uncultivated boor, who 
has never been outside of the county in 
which he was born, and he immediately 
proposes to signalize his good fortune by 



I $6 HOMEWARD BOUND. 

a trip to Europe. To every ear to which 
he gets access he rehearses in horrible 
English the story of his rise in life, and 
invariably adds, "I thought I'd bring 
ma'm and the gals to Europe." 

He is usually particular and exacting, 
but seldom miserly. For this reason hotel 
proprietors abroad are coming to care 
but little for his patronage, while waiters 
and porters are always glad to see him, 
because they know that while they are 
to suffer for a season, they are, in the 
end, to be amply rewarded. 

American travelers abroad have spoiled 
the employes of Europe. The prodigality 
with which backsheesh has been distributed 
has taught them to expect reward for 
the smallest service, and one must fall 
in with the prevailing custom or else be 
branded as a miserly thief. And when 



HOMEWARD BOUND. 1 57 

one comes to understand that the sal- 
aries of most of the waiters in the res- 
taurants and cafes of Europe consist solely 
of the gratuities which they receive from 
patrons, and that many of them actually 
pay proprietors for the privilege of wait- 
ing, he hardly has the heart to refuse the 
little pittance which is necessary to insure 
him attentive service. Each "tip" is 
small, to be sure, but their sum during an 
extended European trip approximates a 
small fortune. The best way is to submit 
gracefully, but still one can not help har- 
boring a feeling of disgust for proprietors 
who will secure service in this manner, and 
especially for snobbish Americans who 
have had to do so largely with the growth 
of this pernicious custom. But I find my- 
self running off at a tangent, and a glimpse 
of the spire of old Trinity brings me back 



158 HOMEWARD BOUND. 

from the reverie in which I have been 
indulging. 

Well, after a tedious waiting under the 
surveillance of custom house officers, our 
baggage is at last chalked, and we take a 
hack for the Astor House, which is quite 
the place for an American fresh from Eng- 
land to stop. Our first inquiry, after 
hurrying up the steps, is for mail. A score 
of letters and half as many congratulatory 
telegrams on our safe arrival, are slowly 
counted out. The letter from home is the 
first seal broken, and lo ! a rhyming epistle, 
signed by the whole family, tells me that 
all is well, and welcomes me home. 



THE END. 



\mm 



V 



BRARY OF CONGRESS |^ 



020 677 606 7 



y/. 




